Choice
by Rosywonder
Summary: Solo and Kuryakin brave the delights of an English holiday camp to help a young woman make the right choices for her future. Written as a response to the Summer Solstice challenge.
1. Chapter 1

choice

'She's in a camp?' Illya said, glancing sideways at the overstretched world spreading over the hemispherical globe in front of him. Napoleon stood up slowly, stretching himself imperceptibly like a cat, and took his hands off the Indian Ocean where he had been leaning as he spoke.

The word 'camp' had an entirely different connotation to the Russian as his partner was only just becoming aware. Aware, he thought, but not really fully knowledgeable about Illya's past and why the word might cause him to wince slightly as his gaze followed Napoleon's hand, which had returned to the globe slightly west of its previous position.

'Oh, not the sort of camp you may be imagining, Mr Kuryakin' Waverly said aimiably, his fingers gently strumming a beat on the file by his side. 'No; Miss Costelloe is at present with her family at, er, ah yes, _Hodgkin's Holiday Camp, _Skegness, Lincolnshire'he continued, removing a sheet from the file.

They had been given the details of the assignment as they came in.

'Dorothy Costelloe' Napoleon read out, staring at the photograph clipped to the edge of his sheet. 'Ah yes, working-class girl makes good.' Illya pursed his lips and gently removed the paper from his partner, pushing the image sideways as he studied the text.

'It says here that her doctorate was rated as 'a breakthrough in the field of plant genetics' he muttered, raising his eyebrows as he sifted through the details of her research below.

'Yes, apparently Dr Costelloe has come up with a way of modifying the genes of plants, for entirely worthy purposes, one would hope' Waverly interjected. 'However, as you can see Mr Kuryakin, she now needs to find the right environment in which to continue her work. I'm afraid the world would be in imminent and serious danger if her research ideas were to be developed with the help of a rather more, let us say, _sinister_ organisation.'

Illya returned the photograph to its original position, noting the rather charming tilted nose of the girl, whose open face beneath eyes that challenged the beholder to look away, was covered with a broad mass of freckles.

'I bet she's a redhead' Napoleon whispered, taking back the sheet.

'And that is significant?' his partner replied rather wearily.

'It could be' Napoleon replied cheerfully.

'You have four days gentlemen to persuade Dr Costelloe that her future lies, at least to begin with, with this organisation rather than with our friends at THRUSH. We're reliably informed by our London office that, as far as we know, Dr Costelloe has not been approached by that organisation, in fact I believe they are not aware of her or her research to date.'

'So why have we only four days, sir?' Napoleon asked, picking up a silent vibe from his partner that exactly the same question had been forming in the Russian's mind.

'In four days' time, which is, if I'm not mistaken, the Summer Solstice, Mr Solo, Dr Costelloe's research will be published. Interesting though it is, it's unlikely that anyone else could be capable of developing this work other than its originator, so it is vital, Mr Solo, that she is 'brought into the fold' as it were, before then.'

'And if we fail to do that?' Illya said sombrely, looking at the picture of the woman again. Waverly put down the file he was holding and looked steadily at both men.

'I think you know the answer to that, Mr Kuryakin' he said, equally seriously.

'You mean you managed to get all you need for four days in that?' Illya banged down his suitcase on the narrow bed his side of the chalet and slid the locks open. He could feel Napoleon behind him, mainly because the narrow gangway between the beds did not allow any more than a rather intimate movement between them.

'Unlike you, this mission does not revolve round my wardrobe' Illya hissed, removing his clothes and then carefully revealing the arsenal of weapons hidden beneath them. The beginnings of what felt to him like a close personal relationship had begun to grow between them in the last weeks, Illya charting its course from the turning point of his first spell in Medical when Solo had talked frankly and at length of what had led up to their pairing. The barbed conversations that were now a regular feature of their relationship felt suddenly right, signifying a level of trust in the other that he had felt with no-one since Misha had shared his cabin on board the _Moskva_ a lifetime ago.

He stroked the silencer of the Walther, now lying inert on the dark fabric of his suitcase bottom, conscious that the same thoughts were now flooding through his partner's mind.

'It won't come to that' Solo said suddenly, causing him to straighten.

'It might' Illya replied, covering up the weapons and stowing his suitcase in the wardrobe. He turned round and groaned. Napoleon had only half emptied his rather larger case and already the bed seemed full of clothes.

'Is all that really necessary?' he fumed, moving towards the miniscule bathroom squeezed in at the end of the chalet. He was not surprised at the lack of a shower, an idea the British still seemed to find novel. Napoleon followed him into the room, grimacing at its sparseness.

'Jeez' he said, blowing softly out of his lips. 'Welcome to Hodgkin's Holiday Hell.' Napoleon had spotted the rather feeble attempt at alliteration on a massive wooden hoarding above the gates of the camp as they roared in after a gut-churning journey from London with Kuryakin at the wheel. It was soon apparent from one look at their accommodation that camp life was going to be far from the 'holiday heaven' promised on the hoarding, at least in his opinion. His partner seemed to feel differently, however. Illya grinned happily at his partner's expression and shoved his way past Napoleon back into the bedroom.

'The trouble with you, Napoleon, is that you've become softened by your life of luxury in that apartment of yours and have forgotten the simple pleasures of life' Illya said, diving onto his bed and rolling over onto his back, a look of apparent contentment suffusing his features.

A sudden blare of what sounded like trumpets playing made him frown. Napoleon went over to the window, and pulling back the net curtain, opened it to hear more clearly.

'Good afternoon campers and welcome to Hodgkin's Holiday HEAVEN!' a voice with a decidedly midlands accent boomed out. Don't delay, it's funtime in the South Seas ballroom at eight o'clock tonight, when the team will be welcoming you to an evening of entertainment and romance to the music of Howard Stone and the Upbeats. Before that, it's splash time in the outside pool with big Jim and the Redcoats, and at six o'clock tea will be served by our friendly staff in the Cascade Cafeteria.'

'Tea?' Napoleon said, firmly shutting the window as the wind blasted the curtain into the air. Illya sat up.

'They mean dinner. This is England' he said, 'Breakfast, dinner, tea, in that order.' He stood up and began to rapidly take off his clothes, flinging them down on the bed before he walked into the bathroom. 'I'll have a bath first and then have a look round, while you doll yourself up for the benefit of Miss Costelloe' he said disparagingly, opening up the taps to full blast.

He had got into the bath and was washing his hair when Napoleon came in.

'I was thinking' he said, sitting on the toilet and watching the Russian scrubbing away at his hair, 'how they got to know about the girl.' Illya stopped scrubbing momentarily and pushed his hair backwards off his face.

'Who do you mean, 'they'?'

'Chesters and Steele. They knew about her when they made that wisecrack in the canteen, remember?' Illya lent backwards suddenly and disappeared under the water, submerging again with his hair now plastered to his head.

'Waverly must have told them.'

'No, he can't have. It was confidential, Waverly said. Our big chance, remember, Comrade? Somehow they know and knowing they know worries me.' Illya shrugged and then put his hand out for the towel lying in wait at the end of the bath.

'Steele has a friend in the London office' Illya said slowly. He clambered to his feet and without embarrassment stood drying his hair before winding the towel round himself and yanking the sink plug chain with his foot.

'If they know, then how will that affect us?' he said, seemingly unaware of the extraordinary mass of hair stood up on end all over his head. Napoleon reached back and handed him a comb.

'Comb it before it dries that way' he said. 'The answer to your question is 'I don't know' but you can take it from me that from now on we need to be aware of it.'

'You think he still has something against me?' Illya said, attempting to comb through the errant locks.

'No. I think he has something against us' Napoleon said, 'something I get the feeling which may lead us all into a situation which we may have difficulty controlling.'

A decidedly icy gust of wind coming in from the North Sea forced Napoleon back into the chalet to collect a rather smart cardigan he had seen his partner scowling at before they left for the ballroom. Illya had warned him about the decidedly lowbrow dress code and for once he had been proved right. Most of the couples sitting at tables round the dance floor looked like they were, the English at play. The camp had attracted a particular stratum of English society; those working people eager to have their holiday organised for them from morning until night, at a place far enough away to be different but near enough to still be familiar.

Napoleon leaned back on his chair and scanned the expectant faces from his vantage point at the side of the ballroom. They had been sure that at teatime Dorothy Costelloe was not present in the huge cafeteria where he had picked at, and the Russian had wolfed down a lumpy combination of sausages and mashed potato followed by a rubbery looking lemon meringue pie. He could see Kuryakin approaching now with two drinks from the bar, a gaggle of girls with big skirts and wide hairbands giving him admiring looks as he passed.

He slapped down two rather watery looking pints of beer onto their table and sat down, a deceptively cheerful appearance on his usually unreadable face.

'You're enjoying this' Solo said through the froth of the beer as Illya downed his drink before wiping the foam from his lips with his hand.

The Russian shrugged rather waspishly and glanced round, the serious, intelligent look returning to his face as his gaze took in the assembled campers.

'She's at the back, with who I imagine are her parents and her brother' he said without looking at Napoleon.

Their ploy of keeping the rather large table free by a combination of rather loud and offensive behaviour with each other and unpleasant glares to anyone who dared to approach, made it almost impossible for the Costelloes to find anywhere else to sit other than with the two young men they now seemed to be heading towards.

'Your prediction about Miss Costelloe seems to have been accurate' Illya murmured. To describe her hair as 'red' did it less than justice. It was an astonishing shade, resembling something in a perpetual state of being on fire, Napoleon thought as she approached.

From the beginning Dorothy Costelloe looked disconnected from her family. Her colouring was not shared by any of the others, but Illya detected something similar in the eyes between mother and daughter. Her father was a short-necked bull of a man, what remained of his hair plastered over his head in thin greasy strands, whilst his stomach bulged over the ill-fitting trousers Napoleon viewed with disdain from the other side of the table. The mother followed behind the others partially dragging a chubby boy of about eight with dark brown hair plastered down in similar style to his father's.

'Here, mother' Mr Costelloe said, in a voice that brooked no opposition, giving the two agents a stare before pulling out a chair and parking his rather large backside onto it with a grunt. Illya jumped to his feet and helped Mrs Costelloe to her place, aware that his partner was doing the same in a slightly more intimate way, for her daughter. Illya was momentarily diverted by the band striking up the first piece of music, and stared towards them until startled by a sharp pain in his ribs.

'Can't see.' The youngest Costelloe had driven a chair between his mother and Illya and was now attempting to stand on the seat. Illya noticed Dorothy groan slightly and look down, her red hair falling forward over her face as if to cover her feelings too.

'Get us a drink, Dot' her mother suddenly said in a voice that sounded as worn out as its owner looked.

'No, I'll get them; what'll it be, folks?' Napoleon had stood up again, a wide smile forcing itself onto his features in the murky gloom of the ballroom. After collecting their orders, Napoleon headed off towards the bar, a smoking volcano display incongruously placed behind the counter suddenly erupting in a whiff of sulphurous looking smoke as he approached.

'Is he a Yank?' Mr Costelloe said, dispensing with the usual formalities of introduction. Illya blinked slightly and smiled.

'Um yes. He's with the United States Air Force. We met at University.' Costelloe sniffed slightly and gave Illya a withering look.

'He looks like a military man, I can tell.' He returned his attention to Illya, a slight scowl creasing his features.

'So what's your Uncle Bob then?' Illya's look of complete mystification was broken by Dorothy Costelloe's voice, whispering in his ear.

'He means job, you know, rhyming slang?' Illya turned slightly. Her eyes were a strong shade of green, like a spring lawn after rain, even in the half-light of the room. He found himself struggling to break their gaze, until she squeezed his arm slightly with her hand, breaking the spell.

'Oh, er, I'm still a student.' Mr Costello's opinions were all immediately confirmed by the statement. He gave his wife a decidedly less subtle nudge and nodded his head knowingly.

'I thought so, mother. Posh accent and that long hair, says it all.' Dorothy leaned forward slightly and murmured, 'Please forgive my father's bigotry. He thinks students are leaches on society, don't you dad?' There was a sudden, awkward silence, Mrs Costelloe looking anxiously like a startled rabbit between the other three adults. Even Dorothy's brother paused from his ceaseless jumping on and off the seat, until the tension was relieved by Napoleon's return with the drinks.

'There you go, folks' said Napoleon, immediately aware of the rather electric atmosphere round the table. 'Sorry, there was a run on the snowball cocktails' he carried on, handing a huge glass of the yellow drink to Mrs Costelloe. Before he could speak to Illya, Dorothy got up.

'It's past Alan's bedtime. When he's finished that drink I'll take him back. Alan, who was in the middle of swigging down a large glass of some evil looking fruit soda, paused.

'It's not fair!'

Illya was unfortunate enough to be sitting beside him, the pitch and volume of his complaint making his eardrums ring. He could hear Alan's mother pleading with him in the same weary voice he had heard all evening. He turned slightly and looked the boy in the eye.

'Stop it now' he said very firmly in a voice that only he and the startled eyes staring into his could hear. 'Your sister and I will take you back to your chalet now. Do you understand?'

'Ye-es.' There was a moment's silence before Alan slid from his seat and meekly put his hand into Illya's.

'Now say goodnight to your parents and Mr Solo, Alan.'

Napoleon smiled weakly as he watched them leave the ballroom.

'He's very good with children' he said encouragingly.


	2. Chapter 2

CHOICE Part Two

Napoleon lifted the net curtain gingerly and looked out. Rain meteorologists might call 'driving' lashed the window panes of the chalet, the perpetually howling East wind combining to make the rest of the day not fit for venturing out in, never mind accompanying Miss Costelloe to any more of the activities his partner had lined up for them both.

Illya had returned to the ballroom a little while after he had left the previous evening, minus both the boy and his sister.

'Alan is asleep' he announced to the boy's astonished parents, 'and Dorothy has decided to have an early night too.' After a few more excruciating minutes of talking to the Costelloes, they were able to excuse themselves.

A smaller coffee bar on the other side of the camp provided Illya with a rather greasy looking burger to supplement his coffee, the muddy kind Napoleon was expecting and therefore wasn't disappointed by.

'So, did she say anything to you during bedtime duty?' Napoleon asked, keeping his slight anxiety about the mission out of his voice.

'No, but I have managed to line up a number of activities for you to do together over the next couple of days that might enable you to be more successful than I was' the Russian mumbled through a full mouth. 'It appears that Miss Costelloe is a keen sportswoman, Napoleon. Just up your street, in fact. I told her that you share many of her sporting interests, as well as having a fascination for all things botanical of course.'

'Gee, thanks' Napoleon said. 'I can hardly wait. Incidentally, what exactly are her sporting interests?'

The door to the chalet banged open, Kuryakin projected inwards by the wind's force. He managed to shut the door and then staggered across and collapsed onto the bed. He was clutching a thick cream piece of card, the now familiar Hodgkin's logo on the top. Napoleon could see a little rosette printed in the corner, with the word 'first' emblazoned on its front.

'I'm glad you enjoyed that swim with Miss Costelloe this afternoon' Illya began, laying down the card and pulling out a notepad. 'Ah yes, 2.15, spent half an hour in the ice-cream parlour where you had a large banana float. We didn't get the chance to see your next assignation as we had to go to the competition' he finished, returning the notepad to the safety of his trouser pocket.

'What competition?' Napoleon replied, eyeing the card suspiciously.

'It was Alan's idea' Illya said innocently. 'A good choice in the end, as we thought the competition in the final four was rather weak.' He held up the card.

'Best head of hair competition' Napoleon read incredulously. 'Awarded to Illya Kuryakin, for outstanding colour and sheen.' He could almost bask in the glow emanating from his partner on the bed, his hair spread out on the pillow as if it too were expecting congratulations.

'Well, I hope you feel proud of yourself' Napoleon said rather sarcastically, putting it down and moving to the window again.

Illya suddenly sat up, the change in his expression denoting that serious matters now were about to take precedence.

'You may think I've been wasting my time whilst you've been attempting to seduce Miss Costelloe, but Alan has provided me with a comprehensive dossier on his sister. Apparently, his favourite game is espionage and he is really rather good at it.' He pulled out the notebook again, and turned it over. In the back he had written what amounted to a history of Dorothy Costelloe, including lists of her friends and aquaintances, and any meetings she had attended in the last few weeks she had been living at home. 'Alan is nothing if not thorough' Illya said, pulling out a thin sheet from inside the notebook. 'This is a copy of a letter she received just before they left on holiday, together with notes of a telephone call she had with the same man mentioned in that letter.'

'How on earth did he get this?' Napoleon asked, his heart sinking as he saw the name at the bottom of the sheet.

'Apparently he used a steaming technique he saw demonstrated on television' Illya replied. The phone call he intercepted by listening in on the party line from their neighbour's house.'

'Good God' Napoleon muttered as he read through what amounted to an extremely thorough report on the woman he had signally failed to get through to, let alone persuade to come into the safe arms of UNCLE. 'All I can say is I'm glad I was an only child.' Illya sat up and swung his legs over the bed until they were sitting facing each other across the room, almost rubbing knees in the cramped space between them.

'Well, we can't sit here waiting for the sun to shine' Napoleon said suddenly. 'If you can prise yourself away from your new best friend for a moment, I think you need to take over with Miss Costelloe while I make a little day trip to the Capital.' Illya looked up, the puzzled, innocent look on his face Solo had noticed even in the short time they had been together, which had an almost instant effect on the girls in the office, even though Kuryakin seemed oblivious to it.

'Oh? Oh. I see.' Illya said. You are going to find out how Raymond Grollé now seems to know all about our budding genius.'

'Exactly. The address on this letter may not mean anything, but you can bet that our feathery friend of the French variety is flying our way as we speak.' Illya grinned.

'Very good alliteration, Napoleon. Almost rivals 'Hodgkin's Holiday Heaven' he said, another smirking grin sliding across his face. Napoleon sighed, returning Illya to his previous expression. The Russian pushed himself back a little and crossed his legs under him in a way Napoleon found impressive, before continuing to study the notebook carefully. 'I have a shrewd idea of who Steele's confidant may be in the London office' he began, his lips drawn together in the way that Napoleon had quickly learnt to read as 'annoyed Illya'. 'Before I left, I had an argument, well, he did most of the arguing, with this man. Apparently he thought he was ahead of me in the pecking order for New York.' He tore a page out of the little notebook and reaching across the bed to the little table that stood between them, grabbed a pen. 'If he proves difficult, remind him about the Feather Club' he said, raising his eyebrows.

'The Feather Club?' It was Illya's turn to sigh. 'Yes. That was the other problem between us. He took me there once, when I had only just arrived. I don't have an issue with other people's sexuality; one of my closest friends back home is homosexual, and it didn't get in the way of what we had together' he said quietly, Napoleon immediately detecting a kind of inner problem settling across the Russian's mind. 'However, Hugh is not Misha. What I thought had been settled between us quite obviously hadn't judging by what he quite innacurately and recklessly spread round the office afterwards. I would judge him to be vulnerable, Napoleon. Yes, vulnerable' he repeated softly, looking down.

'Okay. So this Hugh Manning, friend of our very own Norbert Steele, you think he would betray UNCLE if pushed?' Illya shrugged.

'I don't think Steele would push him that far. He's capable of ruthless actions, but generally for better purposes than this. However, I can think of someone else who might.' Napoleon's face hardened. He walked over to the wardrobe and pulled down a small, soft holdall.

'Give me the car keys. I'll stay with a mutual friend of ours tonight and then surprise our friend Hugh with a little visit from his old friend's buddy.' The last word evoked a kind of pain in Illya's chest that took him by surprise. So much of what Napoleon said often seemed outwardly superficial; light things, throwaway phrases. As Illya grew in their partnership he was learning that it was in those very words that his partner's true feelings were hidden. Instantly, he could feel the sharp edges of the letter inside his jacket pocket digging into him, as if reminding him of something he should share and yet hesitated to do so.

'Napoleon, I need to . . .' Solo swung round from putting the last garments in his bag. Illya had cleansed his face of any emotion before he turned.

'You need to what?, frame your award … get a haircut?' Illya smiled.

'Well, possibly the last thing, if you really insist. No, I . . I meant to say that I need to tell Alan we can't go on the Big Dipper again, as I will be spending tomorrow with Miss Costelloe it seems.' Illya realised, biting his lip, that the moment had now passed. He told himself that he could always talk to Napoleon later about it, but he knew if he was honest, that the choice was now his alone to make, and once made, would be final.

He awoke with a start, his hand instantly fumbling for his watch which he had thrown down on the other bed along with the rest of his sodden clothes after a long, miserable walk in the dark along the beach, the sea roaring its sympathy to his unhappy soul as he endlessly computed the alternatives his life now seemed to be offering him. There was something different about the room, and it took Illya a few moments to realise and eventually smile about what it was.

The sun's rays were casting an altogether more attractive light on everything, easing the melancholy he felt had attached itself to him during the long walk and the equally long and sleepless night he had just spent. He stood up as the klaxon burst into life outside the chalets urging campers to rush to the cafeteria for the daily dose of bacon, eggs and the sort of fried bread that the people back at the UNCLE gym would have apoplexy about.

He saw her immediately in the cafeteria, her hair a sort of beacon amidst the more sedate browns of other people's heads. He managed to jump the line to breakfast quite successfully, a cheerful looking girl with bright pink shorts letting him in front of her, in return for what he was sure was a bit of bottom pinching going on as he leaned forward to request a double portion of fried bread.

Mercifully, she was sitting alone as he approached, having managed to shake off the girl in the pink shorts and her friend in the rush to find seats. She looked up, her face instantly betraying an open friendliness towards him which gave him hope and filled him with alarm at the same time. Napoleon had talked, almost lectured him before he left, about the consequences that might ensue if all else failed.

'I don't need you to tell me my duty' he had said rather acidly, not meaning to. Napoleon had raised his eyebrows a little.

'You've already become close to that boy. I'm just reminding you that if I don't manage to stop whatever is going on with Grant Chesters and THRUSH, and you don't manage to persuade her to make the right choice, then there is only one option left.'

Napoleon's final words clanged inside his head like a death knell as she patted the seat beside her and pulled his sleeve.

'Mr Kuryakin! How lovely! Have I bored your friend to death already?' Illya smiled and sat down.

'Er no, he's had to go to London. Something to do with his job' he said truthfully, pouring a suspiciously bright coloured liquid into his glass that claimed to be orange juice. He noticed that she had very little in front of her, just a sad looking piece of dry toast and a small heap of marmalade to keep it company on the plate.

'The breakfast not your thing?' he said, after a while. She smiled ruefully at his near empty plate.

'I can't believe you eat that sort of thing every morning' she replied, managing to touch his hand as she pointed out the fried bread. He nodded, suddenly feeling guilty about the extra piece and leaving it there to congeal on the plate.

'No, not usually. It tends to weigh me down a little when I run' he replied. She turned to him instantly, excitement suffusing her face.

'You run?' she said, rather loudly. 'Your friend didn't seem that keen, although he was the most extraordinarily good shot on the rifle range. He won almost everything!'

'I can imagine' Illya said, sipping his tea. 'Um, if you like, when this has gone down we could, um, run on the beach, you know, barefoot.' Dorothy's puzzled look manifested itself in a twitch of her nose and a shake of the fiery locks. She stood up, drawing him towards her with her gaze.

'I'll meet you at the gate then, ten o'clock?'

'What's the matter, darling, that new partner of yours causing you probbies?' Napoleon looked over at the woman he was sharing what felt like the most luxurious bed in the world after the last couple of nights of agony in the chalet.

'No, Pamela, he is not causing me 'probbies' as you so delightfully put it' he said. Pamela Wentworth, or as her correct title, which she only used 'in extremis, darling' would have it, Lady Pamela Wentworth, was a vital cog in the London UNCLE office, a fact that Harry Beldon seemed not to understand, but which Napoleon was fully cognisant. The truth was, however, that Kuryakin was causing him problems, or at least there was a problem his partner had that, for reasons Solo did not at present understand, he was keeping to himself. He had reminded the Russian to contact him if it was necessary, but his communicator remained ominously silent.

'He is rather a dear' Pamela was going on, 'a scruffy dear, but a dear all the same, don't you think?' Napoleon smiled. The word 'dear' seemed an incongruous one for someone as apparently cool as the Russian appeared to him, but perhaps women saw him differently. He nodded, knowing they did. 'Well I'm sure you can give him some tips him now you're a pair' she went on. 'He was a considerable loss to our office you know, though to hear some of them speak, you wouldn't think so.'

The words seemed a perfect introduction to what he had wanted to ask ever since he arrived.

'Pammy, tell me about Hugh Manning, and don't leave out any of the more interesting details, please.'

She was standing at the gates waiting, her hair tied into a fat ponytail, and her long pale legs encased in a pair of dark running shorts topped by a t-shirt with a familiar logo he hadn't seen since long ago Cambridge days. The thought of Cambridge made the letter rise again painfully in his mind, making him frown as he approached her.

She had an unconventionality that attracted him, he had to admit. He had noticed it in the ballroom when she had verbally attacked her father and at breakfast in her enthusiasm for the activity they were now to undertake together. Just as before, she came up to him until she was so close he could see the pattern of the freckles on her face as she studied him.

'What's wrong?' she said without preamble, 'you look as if someone's just given you bad news.' Illya hesitated, disarmed by her ability to read him. Forcing a more relaxed expression, he took her hand and moved towards the little sentry box at the gate.

'It's nothing' he lied reasonably convincingly. 'Nothing that a longish run in the sand won't sort out.' She frowned, unconvinced, he could see, but letting it pass for now. He thrust two passes at the gatekeeper and they pushed open the pedestrian gate by the side of the road, which was already filled with a line of cars crammed with families waiting to enter the camp for the day.

They crossed the road dividing the camp from the beach and trudged down through coarse grass to the sand's edge. In the darkness, Illya had sensed the size of the beach, but by day it took on a new aspect, the sky and sea and sand combining to make the two of them feel like ants in an immense and unending landscape. They threw down their bags by the side of a very large and hopefully memorable hummock of grass, and stood for a few moments in appreciation of what lay before them, before Illya sat down and pulled off his outer clothes and shoes, his running companion, to his amusement, neatly folding them before adding her shoes to the pile.

'I've never done this before' she said, looking at him as the wind suddenly gusted the hair across his face. Without commenting he turned, and with a slight nod and a flick of his head to readjust his hair, set off down towards the water. Dorothy, momentarily transfixed by the grace of his movement, stood frozen to the spot, before, with a shout, she plunged down the beach after him.

The restaurant was on a slightly higher level of sophistication than the one Napoleon remembered Kuryakin taking him to the very first time they had met, barely six months ago. The square wooden tables, shiny gloss painted walls and simple menu were this time replaced with a kind of _olde worlde_ style of décor attempting to suggest 'coaching inn' to anyone interested; the menu more extensive, this one with a fake leather cover on which was printed the name of the establishment, 'The Steak Out'. The name seemed ironically apt as he scanned the tables for the man he intended to meet there.

He was sitting towards the back, studying the menu intently as if he had never seen it before, his gaze unwavering as Napoleon approached. The scrape of the chair opposite his own forced him to look up, a kind of strangled fear spreading across the other man's face like a slow tide, ebbing and flowing as he struggled to appear relaxed in front of the American.

'Don't get up' Napoleon began, opening the menu at his side. Now what do you recommend, _old man_?' Manning turned out to be precisely the kind of privately educated Oxbridge snob that Pamela had described and which Solo found so difficult to stomach. Manning, with an almighty effort recovered himself, assuming a kind of superior sneer as he looked down again at the menu.

'Oh I'd go for the steak of course, old chap' he said, 'it's about the only thing more or less edible in this excuse for a restaurant.' They contemplated each other for a few more minutes whilst the order was taken and drinks in the form of two glasses of sherry were brought to the table before Napoleon slowly drew out the copy of the letter he had been given by Illya and edged it across the table towards Manning.

The English agent frowned before reaching for his sherry and taking a sip whilst his other hand grasped the paper and flicked it open before him. The sherry turned out to be the predictable sweet stuff Napoleon expected. He had almost finished the glass when Manning spoke.

'I can't understand where you got this and why you could possibly think I might have anything to do with Miss Costelloe and her attempts to carry on whatever she's been doing at Cambridge' he said, grabbing his sherry glass and gulping down the contents.

'Oh I think you understand very clearly' Napoleon said in hushed, menacing tones. He waited for the meals to be placed on the table, the steaks looking surprisingly appetising, though he noticed Manning was having difficulty in swallowing his own meal. After a while, Napoleon laid down his utensils and leaned backwards slightly, keeping Manning in his gaze.

'Let me spell it out to you then' he began, 'and then you can tell me whether you understand after that. For some reason, you have been persuaded to leak secure information to a member of an organisation we both know, to a man whom we had been attempting for some time to turn, unsuccessfully as it turns out, because of course that man had no intention of being turned, did he?

'I didn't know that, I thought he was . . ' Manning blurted out suddenly, his outburst instantly rendering him speechless as he realised his error. Napoleon smiled for a moment, before his face instantly returned to its previous serious expression.

'Really? Well let me just tell you how I see this little tragedy panning out and you can just let me know if I've missed anything, OK?' Manning snatched at his drink and gulped it down, signalling to the waitress to bring him another, before returning his dull gaze towards the man opposite. Napoleon pulled out his cigarette case and offered one to Manning, watching the tremor of his hand as he leaned across to take the light. He took a drag of the cigarette and blew out a long stream of smoke.

'Four months ago, your partner, what was his name?'

'Forrester, Ambrose Forrester' Manning managed to splutter as Solo took a sip of his wine.

'Ah yes, Ambrose Forrester. Forrester was given information from a contact he had at one of the Cambridge colleges about some remarkable research going on that had been kept secret until that point, for very good reasons. I guess the college was trying to find a way of protecting their researcher, who, it seemed, had expressed a wish to escape the confines of her laboratory for more interesting pastures in which to graze, right?'

'If you say so' Manning mumbled, stubbing out his cigarette and pushing the ashtray away.

'This information was considered so valuable by your partner that he contacted Waverly directly. Even Beldon wasn't really in on it, was he?' He took Manning's truculent shrug as a yes and continued. 'But then, just at the point it was about to be sent, your partner was killed in that shoot-up in Belgrade, and you took over his files until another could be found for you.'

'It was Waverly's direct instruction' Manning countered fiercely. 'Beldon was in Yugoslavia dealing with the fallout from the Belgrade mess and the file was marked for immediate transmission. I just followed orders.' Napoleon snorted slightly at the last, desperate sounding comment.

'Uh-huh? So you were just following orders when you told your friend Norbert all about a little red head with a very big secret, were you?' Manning's face drained even of the rather insipid shade it was already, taking on the tone of wet cement.

'How did you . . .' Napoleon could see his frantic brain rapidly computing this part of the story. He suddenly stiffened, his face rigid in the red glow of the lamp behind him.

'Illya Kuryakin'. Astonishingly, the name seemed to have a restorative effect on the English agent. He sat back, a rather cruel smile beginning to play across his lips.

'I might have known' he said, pulling out another cigarette from his jacket. 'Does he tell you all his secrets now you two are so close, or do you wait until bedtime to share?'

Napoleon grimaced slightly, the man beginning to make his flesh creep. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his communicator, his fingers spinning the dial while he stared coldly at Manning.

'Wait' Manning said suddenly, reaching over and grabbing his wrist. Shrugging him off Napoleon put down the case.

'I'm waiting'.

'I'll tell you what you want to know about Grollé on the condition that you give me protection until this thing is over and then you let me leave this bloody organisation and disappear into the ether. After all, nothing's happened yet and no doubt your pretty boy is protecting the goods until your return, is he not?'

They stood up and walked over to the bar at the end of the room, where a dark haired man with a full moustache was settling customers' bills behind a large till.

'One thing, Manning' Napoleon said, as Manning stooped to write a cheque on the counter. If I'm even to consider your proposal I need to know who it was who pressurised you into passing the whole file over, as I think you most certainly did.' Manning blanched slightly, his hand hesitating before tearing the cheque from the book.

They left the bar and headed for a rather dingy corridor where their coats were hanging from a row of brightly coloured pegs on the wall.

'Norbert is, well let's say he likes to be lead, if you know what I mean, old chap' Manning continued as they struggled into their coats. 'But perhaps you don't like it like that with the little blond, eh?' Napoleon clenched his fist inside his trouser pocket and turned away to stop himself delivering a blow which he might enjoy but regret later when the 'little blond' found out about it. It was an equally regrettable action as it turned out. Manning lurched into him as he turned back, a rather surprised look on his bland face as he crumpled to the floor, a viscous pool of blood neatly forming from the puncture wound of the long stiletto expertly thrust into his back.


	3. Chapter 3

CHOICE Part Three

The seat was one of the few left vacant along the pier, the Victorian wood and metal structure stretching away elegantly to pierce the distant horizon where the sun was still high and bright in the sky. Illya leaned back, squinting against the glare of the late afternoon light, and for what seemed the hundredth time, attempting to make sense of Solo's terse communique.

He could see Dorothy approaching from the street end of the pier, several packages clutched carefully to her chest, his stomach willing their contents to be the fish and chips his memory longed for them to be.

He stood up, watching her progress carefully, noting every other person who passed her, suspicious of anyone who looked remotely likely to be a threat to the long-legged girl with the flaming red hair. She broke into a jog, though he wondered how she still had the energy.

She had kept up with him for some time, before, seeing her tire a little, he had slackened his pace and they had run side by side, the sea inexorably creeping closer as the tide drew in. Illya swung away and ran up the beach, Dorothy cutting across him as they ran back further up in the drier, softer sand towards their belongings. As he slowed, she gave him a shove, propelling him forwards towards the broad hummock of grass from where they had begun. He rolled over and pulled her down in a sudden, equally impulsive gesture, the two of them coming to rest beneath the little hill of grass. For a few short minutes they faced each other, panting with exhaustion, her head laying on his chest, her breath coming in long, warm bursts.

He hadn't intended it to happen, had assured both Napolon and himself that he would be able to remain distant from her both physically and emotionally. He had even prided himself that he could remain detached from any woman for as long as he needed to, perhaps permanently if that was deemed necessary by his career choice. Now, as his lips searched for hers, as he felt her respond to his insistent love-making, all of those cold, dispassionate thoughts were eagerly, desperately thrust aside.

Feeling himself to be reaching a point of no return he pushed himself away with a shuddering sigh and rolled over. A deep sense of shame flooded over him, only broken by the touch of her lips on his cheek.

'It's alright. It is, really.'

He rolled back and sat upright, pulling Dorothy towards him, until they were both hidden by the lea of the grassy hill as they silently contemplated the inexorable ebb and flow of the sea on the sand.

Illya lay his head back into a little hollow behind him, and closed his eyes, amazed that she had not stormed off or slapped his face as he imagined women usually would do in this situation.

'I'm so dreadfully sorry, I hadn't intended to . . . he stammered a little, feeling her getting closer again. 'I was meant to . .'

'What? You were meant to what?' she said, cupping his chin in her hand and forcing him to regard her serious green eyes. She let him go and they adjusted their positions, Dorothy entwining herself into him somehow, waiting for his answer.

'You were meant to . . . let me guess, you were meant to _protect_ me from something or someone, is that it? Is that why your friend made so much effort yesterday?' Illya remained silent, wondering how she had made such an easy job of reading him like a book, reading them both. The silence lasted for a while, the sea providing a steady background to their thoughts, overlaid by other, more intrusive noises of faraway children's laughter and the raucous squawking of seagulls circling above.

Illya pushed the hair away from his face and looked back at her. 'Dorothy' he said slowly, 'I believe that tomorrow you intend to make a decision which will have a profound effect on your future life.' Dorothy opened her mouth to reply, but he continued. 'If your choice merely affected you and your family it would not of course be of concern to me or the organisation I work for. However, as we both know, that is not the case, is it?'

Dorothy's mouth closed, her furious expression softened by her pondering of his last words. She looked down, before a gradual smile confirmed some kind of decision had been made.

Dragging him up beside her, she stood up.

'Okay, whoever you are, Illya Kuryakin' she said boldly. 'I'll make you a deal. She looked behind her, staring momentarily at the heap of crumpled clothes he had left on the sand before the run. 'Put yourself into my hands for the rest of the day and I'll let you into my plans.' She began to laugh at his expression as she knelt down and threw his clothes at him. 'Illya, you still look as if you're in the fifties' she said, watching him struggling into his trousers in front of her. 'Look at those, for instance, two sizes too big and such a boring colour!'

Illya glanced downwards. The mushroom coloured trousers had been purchased during his Cambridge years in a shop calling itself a 'gentleman's outfitters' by a younger version of himself who saw clothes as something that served the function of making one decent in polite company. Since most summer holidays were spent back home in the Navy, he had survived with the bare minimum, only supplemented when he started at UNCLE with a couple of suits bought in a similar shop in a similar way, his evening dress suit added later when his job made that necessary.

He frowned, pulling on the shirt she handed him and then bending down to force his shoes onto his feet. Napoleon's last instruction before he left for London played suddenly in his mind, forcing him upright. _'Whatever you do, whatever you have to do, don't fail Illya. Both our futures depend on it.'_

'Well?'

'Before I agree to this, can I just ask exactly what you have in mind?' he asked hesitantly, allowing her to put her arm round him as they slowly trudged back to the road.

'Oh, I thought we'd start at the top first, and work down' she said brightly.

'I thought you might say that' he murmured, sighing again.

The humidity reminded Napoleon of New York on a similar day as he stood on the pavement. He had spoken to Illya after spending what felt like forever in the police station patiently answering the questions of a policeman who from the start made it obvious he found Solo's story unconvincing. As Napoleon finally despaired of ever leaving the place there was a hiatus in the questioning and moments later he found himself a free man again.

Pamela, who Napoleon was convinced had been behind his rescue, had persuaded him that a return train journey was out of the question.

'I'll be back in a jiffy' she had promised, as they turned the corner from the station and walked down a side street. 'Wait there.'

He had managed to raise Kuryakin immediately, even though he could tell that the Russian was outside somewhere, near the sea by the cawing sound of sea birds in the background.

'Manning is dead' he began rather abruptly. 'You were right about him, and unfortunately it looks as though Chesters and Steele are involved too, though he was taken out before he had a chance to elaborate on that one.'

There was a few moments' silence before Illya replied, equally tersely, 'What about Grollé?'

'Well, he's in there too, and definitely not for turning as they say. In fact I have the very bad feeling . . .'

'That there has been a turning in the opposite direction?' Illya replied darkly.

'Precisely. Anyway, what about you? Made any progress?' There was another short silence, followed by what Napoleon was sure was a very long sigh.

'Miss Costelloe is about to reveal to me exactly what has been going on and what the arrangements are for tomorrow' he said, 'which I hope will prove useful, after the sacrifices I've been forced to make.' Napoleon stared quizzically at his communicator before Kuryakin muttered something about fish and chips and was gone.

An engine roar alerted him to Pamela's arrival as her car turned the corner and came to a halt beside him. He raised his eyebrows and got in, jolted forward suddenly as the car sprung into life again and pulled out into the traffic.

'Before you say, it was a present from pater' Pamela said, accelerating round a row of black cabs parked outside a railway station and heading north. Napoleon stared at the dashboard, noting the familiar features of the Aston Martin car as they slipped through the suburbs.

'I was going to say that it's not usually the choice of . .'

'a woman?' Pamela interrupted, glancing sideways at him rather disparagingly. 'Come, come, Napoleon.' He shrugged, and sat back a little, putting his hands behind his head.

'Okay, point taken. 'So, when are you taking over the world, Pamela?' He avoided a slap as she was forced to slow down round a rather congested roundabout, but her good humour remained intact and they passed a pleasant half hour chatting amicably until the car had settled itself onto the A1 and they had commenced the long straight drive through the midlands towards Peterborough, and thence through the flatlands of Linconshire towards the coast.

Napoleon waited until the traffic had lessened before turning to more serious matters.

'I'll have to speak to Waverly about Chesters and Steele' he began. 'I'm pretty convinced that Chesters has jumped ship to THRUSH and that Steele is either a willing accomplice or a naïve dupe.' Pamela frowned, spinning round yet another roundabout and then throttling down as they roared past another set of cars and caravans heading for the coast.

'Manning must have been considered a weak link' she said thoughtfully, and when they saw him with you, someone must have decided to remove him from the equation. That suggests to me that he told someone he was meeting you.' She signalled him to open a rather expensive looking brown leather handbag she had shoved in the well next to his feet as they left.

'There's a notebook in there should tell you what you need to know' she said.

The first page of the book contained a list of times with names carefully written by each entry, beginning with the previous evening and ending at midday that day.

'I made a copy of calls made by and to Manning' she said simply. 'You can see that after your call to him last night, there was quite a flurry of activity between him and the New York office.'

'Pamela, you're marvellous' Napoleon said, thumbing down the list.

'Not really. You have a large debt to pay to Diana on switchboard I'm afraid, Napoleon, and you know how she likes you to repay those kind of debts, darling.' Napoleon smiled, searching for something to write with.

'Tell Diana it'll be a night to remember' he said unselfconsciously. 'The first few are all to Steele, but then, ah yes, now this is interesting.' He drew a line under the last call Manning had made. A sense of imminent danger suddenly coursed through him, exciting and frightening him in equal measures. He looked up, admiring Pamela's calm, regular features in profile as she drove.

'If Chesters has joined forces with Grollé that is very worrying' she said baldly. Raymond Grollé is an extremely unpleasant man underneath the charming French exterior, and if for any reason at all, he senses that his plans are being jeopardised, Napoleon, he will not hesitate to bring the timetable forward. So, who is with Miss Costelloe, as well as Illya?'

Napoleon stared ahead, willing the miles to disappear.

'There's no-one else. Just Illya' he replied, trying to disregard the look of horror on Pamela Wentworth's face as the car immediately gained speed.

Alan was in his pyjamas when Illya arrived, Mrs Costelloe opening the door and greeting him with a look which both reminded him of Dorothy and showed that once she too had been beautiful.

'Oh what a transformation! Dottie told me you'd been out on the town with her, but well I never, you look like a real gentleman now, don't he, Alan?' As Alan gave him a searching look he heard Dorothy say from somewhere in the depths of the chalet, 'Don't call me Dottie, mother', immediately signalling a return of the old, put upon look her mother habitually wore.

Alan barged ahead of his mother and drew Illya into the chalet, his mother following and sitting down tiredly at the end of his bed.

'Dot. . I mean Dorothy's just getting herself ready' she said kindly, smiling encouragingly at him in the way Illya worried about when he had met women's mothers, which was not often. 'Now get into bed, Alan, and be a good boy for Mr Kuryakin, now.' Alan, who after a firm look from Illya complied with his mother, leapt onto the bed and began to sort through a number of the comic annuals he liked to end the day with.

'Father's just gone out for a smoke' Mrs Costelloe murmured, 'then we're going down to the theatre for the Variety show.' As she moved into the light, Illya noticed a large bruise covering the bottom of her arm, where it had come loose from the cardigan draped round her shoulders. He frowned, wondering, not for the first time, about Dorothy's father and their striking dissimilarity.

At that moment, Dorothy came out of the bathroom, a straight dress of a lovely shade of sea blue in stunning contrast to her hair, now attractively piled up on top of her head. Illya got up as the door was unceremoniously yanked open and Mr Costelloe entered.

He was momentarily taken aback by the sight of his daughter and a man whom he didn't recognise at first, but soon realised was the scruffy student that had sat with them the other night. Since then he'd had a bloody good haircut and changed his clothes, though Costelloe didn't personally hold with these tight fitting suits usually worn by greasy Italians in those foreign films Dot liked to watch.

'Ready, Mother?' he said, making his feelings about the suit known on his face. 'And don't be late, Dot' he added as they turned. 'I don't trust these people crawling round here; I don't want Alan left too long, right?'

'I'll make sure Dorothy comes back on time, Mr Costelloe' the student chap with the Ruskie name said, with that posh voice he used which put Costelloe's teeth on edge. No wonder Dot had ideas above her station; she had spent the last three years with men like him, he thought. Not for the first time he wished that Elsie had put the girl in that home like he told her when he'd agreed to marry her; then it would have been just the three of them. Still, the frog chap he had met with seemed to be offering a solution to getting her off his hands, and the money had come in handy too.

Illya glanced at Dorothy before sitting on the bed next to Alan. The boy, who thankfully resembled his mother, thrust a book in his hand as his sister sank into a tiny tub chair at the end of her bed.

'Did she do this to you?' Alan whispered conspiratorially as they flipped open the pages to the story entitled 'Mekon invasion.'

'Well, she didn't exactly do it to me, but she was involved' Illya whispered back.

'That's what you get when you let women tell you what to do' Alan said knowingly. Illya nodded in agreement and began to read. As the story reached its mighty conclusion he noticed the boy's eyelids begin to droop satisfyingly.

'Alan, lay down now' he said gently, closing the book. He felt the boy's hand upon his as he slid down, his face now just that of a child; innocent and still in the shadows of the lamp.

'Illya' he said at last. 'I'd like a prayer like Mam says. Illya glanced behind him. Dorothy had stood up and was leaning on the wall by the door, watching them both.

'Mam's a Catholic' she said quietly. She still says prayers when he's out' she said, imperceptibly jerking her head out of the door. Illya frowned. The prayers of his childhood remained in his native language and to translate them seemed to make them less than they meant to him. Something more recent was needed.

'Um, I think I can remember something' he said, unconsciously sliding to his knees beside the bed.

_Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, _he began,

_Bless the bed that I lie on._

_Before I lay me down to sleep_

_I give my soul to Christ to keep._

_Four corners to my bed,_

_Four angels round my head;_

_One to watch and one to pray,_

_And two to bear my soul away._

He was encouraged by the look on the boy's half sleeping face and the sudden, interior feeling that this poem prayer might have meaning for him too that night.

_I go by sea, I go by land_

_The Lord made me with his right hand._

_If any danger come to me,_

_Sweet Jesus Christ deliver me._

_He is the branch and I'm the flow'r,_

_Pray God send me a happy hour_

_And if I die before I wake,_

_I pray that God my soul will take._

There was a deep stillness in the room, Alan's face peaceful in repose as Illya stood up and turned out the lamp beside him. As he reached her, Dorothy took his arms and wound them round herself, until finding her lips again he allowed himself to sink into the embrace with a more steady heart.


	4. Chapter 4

CHOICE Part Four

The chalet was in darkness. Outside the long day had finally sunk into the kind of translucent night beautiful summer days often turned into. Napoleon, knowing that his partner would lock the door whether he was out or in, fitted his key and turned the rather cheap handle, opening the door slowly and going in. He could see immediately that the flimsy curtains on the windows either side of the door were drawn and that his partner's bed was empty.

He put down his bag on the bed behind him and switched on the bedside light. Drawing back Illya's bedcover, he picked up the rather lumpy pillow and squeezed it. A small card dropped out, advertising a shop offering 'smart suits at great prices.' Napoleon stared at the card for a few moments and then opened the wardrobe, where in the jacket pocket of a remarkably smart black suit, a flimsy page was folded into a very neat, tiny rectangle.

_D has explained. Bedtime duties followed by dinner (Our Lady OPN). Will return at 10. I._

Solo looked at his watch. There was no indication whether Illya had managed to change her mind, but soon it wouldn't matter anyway. He smiled at the religious reference, remembering Kuryakin's comment as they had stared into the Italian restaurant the camp had provided for those who might prefer a candlelit dinner to the more basic cuisine of the canteen. 'Our Lady, ora pro nobis' he had muttered almost to himself as he had stared up at the rather bosomy painting of the Madonna on the outside of the restaurant named 'Sancta Maria' in her honour.

But it was now a quarter to eleven. The chalet suddenly seemed stuffy and claustrophobic, the thin wooden walls capable of moving inwards to stifle him. He rummaged inside his jacket and drew out a tiny key which enabled him to withdraw his gun and holster from the hidden compartment at the side of his bag. Illya's lateness made something within him reach for his communicator to reassure himself that his partner was still enjoying his evening out with the girl, even though Solo's heart told him differently. He flipped open the lid and turned the dial, waiting. After a few more attempts, he replaced it in his jacket and, after locking the door, ran down between the chalets towards the flat roofed buildings ahead.

'I understand why you would want to travel and have new challenges in your life, but I find it hard to believe you would abandon your family, your country so easily, at the behest of a comparative stranger.' As soon as he had said it, Illya shook his head at the irony of his words. In describing her actions he had described his own not many years before. He remembered the letter again, lying patiently within his jacket waiting for an answer.

Illya lent back, a perfect view of the restaurant afforded by his position on the back wall. It was reasonably busy, mainly with couples of similar age to himself and Dorothy, escaping from the canteen to enjoy a more intimate but not necessarily better meal in the subdued lighting of the 'Sancta Maria' restaurant. Nobody, either amongst the waiters or the clientele stood out to him as being suspect in any way; nobody seemed interested in the blond man and his red-headed girlfriend except the waiter bringing them their rather anaemic plates of spaghetti set in a Bolognese sauce that seemed as far from its native land as he felt from his.

'Family?' Dorothy replied rather aggressively, moderating her voice as she saw his rather startled expression, 'What family? Mam spends her whole life apologising for her existence and as for him . . . .' Illya lent forward into the light of the flickering candle which had been plonked between them earlier by the waiter.

'He's not your father, I presume' he said quietly. She gazed at him for a moment, reaching out to touch his hand as he pushed the plate away.

'Mam never said, and I grew up thinking that there was something wrong with me, something about me that made him hate me so much' she said fiercely. 'Eventually I worked it out, especially when Alan came, but she's never admitted it, never.' She smiled, forcing back other feelings as she contemplated him, the new haircut with its short soft fringe framing the broad forehead and his serious, brooding eyes beneath. If her origins were mysterious to her, it was nothing to the aura of mystery surrounding the man who now sat opposite.

'Have you ever asked her?' he said, making her suck her lips slightly. She shook her head.

'No, I . . well there never seemed to be the right moment . . I mean he was always there' she said rather lamely, looking down. She felt him grasp her hand, the size of it encasing hers with a firmness she felt curiously empowered by.

'Ask her' he said simply. 'Besides, even if you consider abandoning your parents, there is always your brother to consider, and brothers are important.'

Dorothy frowned, her brow crinkling at his words. 'Illya' she said slowly, 'You tell me not to go with Mr Grollé, even though I can't imagine getting a better offer for the next fifty years. You tell me not to trust strangers but, well, what do I really know about you?' She stared at him for a moment before continuing, 'You're not a student at all, are you?'

'Not exactly' Illya began hesitantly, having difficulty with his words, as he reminded himself was often the case with women. 'I work for an organisation dedicated to, well, protecting the world against those who wish to control it for entirely immoral purposes' he said, immediately hating himself for sounding so utterly pompous.

'Entirely immoral purposes?' Dorothy said, half laughing at his earnestness. She leant across and kissed him, flicking his hair as she sat back. 'You are very funny, you know that? Now try again, and this time, in plain English, OK?'

Illya sighed. 'What I'm trying to say is that your research, it's so important, but it could be used for bad things, to threaten people with, to destroy even, as well as to give life and hope, don't you see?' He saw her expression change, an immediate empathy with his words flashing across her face.

'You know science', she murmured, 'scientific research and discovery, it's really the best thing, but it has such, well, _responsibility_ attached.'

'I know' Illya replied gravely.

The conversation had been so intense he had relaxed his surveillance of the restaurant and so not noticed the proximity of three men sitting at the next table. As he leapt to his feet he found his arm yanked across his back and the table screech forwards as he was wrenched sideways into the unwelcome embrace of a massive brick of a man standing against the wall. He heard Dorothy's voice, not a scream, more like a shout, demanding that they stop, just before the sharp prick in his neck caused him to stagger forward. As he lost consciousness he heard someone familiar assuring the other diners that there was really no problem, it was a police matter.

The discordant metallic sound of what could only be clattering pans awoke him.

'_Cretin! Qu'est-ce que vous faites?_ He heard in some part of his brain that found difficulty in computing why he was now in France. He felt someone unceremoniously pull up one of his eyelids and then drop his head back onto a cold metal surface he realised his whole body was lying on.

'He's awake' another more distant voice announced, one that sent a cold sharp pain into his heart.

'_J'éspère ça.'_

'You'd better send your heavy boys outside to look for the kid; we might need him to persuade Miss Costelloe here to have a change of heart.'

Illya could hear Dorothy struggling quite near to him, desperate sounds coming from what could only be a gag preventing her from speaking properly.

'Now promise me, Miss Costelloe' he heard Grant Chesters say in the patronising drawl he usually used when speaking to Illya, 'that you'll try not to scream if I remove the gag, OK?' There was a slight hiatus, before he felt slight, soft hands on his head for a moment until she was dragged away and after a few moments more, he was forced to come to shuddering consciousness by a bucket of freezing cold water being thrown across his face.

Illya blinked wildly, realising at the same time that he had been stripped of his clothes, barring, he thought thankfully, his underwear and shirt. Moving his head slowly, he took in his surroundings. They were in the kitchen of the restaurant, the windows at the end of the room displaying an exterior darkness which indicated that most campers had long reached their cabins, and that cooking had finished for the evening.

An unfamiliar face appeared in front of him, one which he supposed women would be impressed by and men would admire grudgingly. Raymond Grollé was obviously taller than Illya, his regular features and impeccable grooming reminding the Russian of men he had seen gracing the streets of Paris in his student days there.

'Mr Kuryakin' he said slowly in equally impeccable English, 'are you quite recovered from the tranquiliser? I'm sorry about it, but your reputation precedes you, if Mr Chesters is to be believed' he added, glancing backwards and then giving Illya a lascivious smile that made him grind his teeth slightly.

'Let her go' Illya said without taking his eyes off Grollé. 'She's changed her mind about your apparently generous job offer, Grollé.' Grollé smiled again, running his finger across Illya's fringe in a grotesque parody of Dorothy's actions earlier in the evening.

'You didn't tell me he was so pretty, Chesters' he said, looking away for a moment, before instantly returning to his perusal of Illya. 'I know' he continued, continuing to stroke Illya's face and hair. 'That's why we're here, Mr Kuryakin. Don't tell me your lovely companion didn't tell you she'd fallen for your rugged northern European charms and changed her mind?' He straightened, his soft laugh instantly replaced by a sharper, crueller tone.

'Well that's a shame, Miss Costelloe,' Grollé said, walking towards Dorothy and feeling, with pleasure, Kuryakin's stress levels rising as he did, 'because it would have been such a productive relationship.' He came up close to Dorothy and without warning put his hand inside her dress, grasping her breast and pushing himself nearer as she squirmed in front of him.

'For God's sake' Chesters said wearily, Illya's nose assailed with the familiar smell of his cigarettes as he lit one behind him. Grollé released himself from Dorothy and walked over to the wall at the side of the table, bristling with a multitude of kitchen utensils faintly gleaming in the subdued lighting at the edge of the room. Dorothy's gasp alerted Illya to the fact that he had not returned empty handed.

'I'm getting a little bored with you, Miss Costelloe' Grollé said, tapping the side of the preparation table with a large filleting knife. 'If, as you said in your telegram, we have nothing further to offer you in the scientific line, then perhaps you can be of use to us in another way.'

Illya could hear her trying to control her fear, breathing deeply inwards before she spoke, her voice now calm and cool.

'Get lost, you horrible French creep; I'd rather die than do anything to help you or your friend, whoever he is' she replied savagely. Illya turned his eyes upwards, preparing himself for what might ensue. He could see Grollé smile maliciously before, with deft strokes, he ran the filleting knife up Illya's shirt, the buttons pinging off into space as it fell back on either side of his chest.

'Not very helpful Grollé' Illya cut in, 'besides, it was new and I don't have time to sew the buttons on again.' Grollé lent over him and suddenly brought the knife up under his chin, forcing his head backwards.

'You have a sharp tongue Mr Kuryakin' he replied, glancing over Illya's head at Dorothy. 'Perhaps we should begin with making it flap a little less.' He grasped Illya's hair and wrenched his head back, forcing his mouth to open with his other hand. As Dorothy pleaded for him to stop, Grollé's arm was gripped and the knife ripped from his hand.

'This isn't about you and your sick fantasies, Grolle' he heard Chesters say as the former UNCLE agent moved into view. 'We need them both alive, remember? I want this to look good.' Illya frowned as his mouth returned to normal and he relaxed for a few moments.

'What is this really about Chesters?' he said quietly, inviting the American closer. Chesters drew up a stool to the table and leaned across until his head was close to the Russian's. Illya could smell the stale tobacco on his clothes and breath, the outwardly smooth, successful man with something stinking and rotten at his core.

'It's been an interesting year to date, since I first joined THRUSH' he said, as if he were giving some kind of lecture to an assembled group of interested colleagues. Illya sensed the usual rambling self-congratulatory diatribe coming up from men like him and kept quiet for once.

'Your arrival in New York was the veritable icing on the cake, Kuryakin' Chesters continued, lighting another cigarette. 'Up until then we were pretty certain we had pulled it off, but when you arrived, we knew that even Waverly could be brought down too.'

Illya frowned. 'Pulled what off?' he said, swivelling his head towards Chesters as the other man blew a long stream of smoke into the air. Chesters grinned, looking back at Grollé for confirmation of his genius.

'The thing about Grant here' Grollé said from the back of the room, 'is that he's not a team player. He likes to lead, _ne'est-ce pas_, Grant?' he added, inviting a nod from the American. Mr Steele was only too happy to be led, was he not, Grant? When Mr Chesters here joined us, we spent quite a long time considering those men in Section Two New York who might be a serious threat to THRUSH in the future. Not surprisingly, your partner's name came up.'

'Oh' Illya said, pursing his lips. 'So . . . you engineered the. .' Grant smiled in a self-satisfied way that Illya longed to end with his fist.

'Exactly, Kuryakin. I engineered the little disasters with all those partners of your partner which eventually led to Waverly giving Solo one final chance . . . with you.' Illya closed his eyes momentarily, remembering the conversation or rather monologue he had listened to, on the night when Napoleon sat at his bedside in Medical after their first mission together had very nearly ended in disaster. Something about that night had always bothered him, something that was now re-awoken by Chesters' words.

'So I presume that night I was nearly killed was part of your plan too' Illya said coldly.

'Absolutely, Kuryakin' Chesters replied, warming to his subject. 'But luckily you didn't die, which is as well, because now you can die for an even greater cause.' Illya said nothing, waiting for the American to explain himself, as he knew he would.

'You see, Kuryakin', Chesters continued, you were picked because you were such a squeaky clean little Soviet citizen; no slimy KGB or GRU associations to prevent Uncle Sam from welcoming you to the land of the free, just one very clever, very good little naval officer with lots of letters after his name whom Uncle Alex and your admiral friend Gutskov could ship over to prove that one day in the future we could all love each other, see?'

Illya sighed audibly and waited again for the inevitable conclusion, his ankles and wrists testing the tight bands holding them to the legs of the table. He could see Grollé moving towards Dorothy again, and her inevitable reaction to his approach.

'I'm sorry, I don't really get your drift' Illya said wearily. Chesters immediately moved closer, the overwhelming smell of his strong cigarettes making Illya instantly recoil from the other man.

'Well I'll spell it out then' he said icily, forcing Illya's head round to face his. 'Very soon you and the lovely Miss Costelloe will be found dead in interesting circumstances, so interesting that UNCLE will be unable to prevent the news leaking out that one of their agents, their Russian experiment no less, was actually not so squeaky clean after all; in fact, after finding the documents we will plant on your body, they will discover that you are exactly the dirty little Soviet spy everyone thought you were. And then,' he said, a kind of gleam coming to his eye that made him appear at once both ruthless and utterly insane, 'not only your partner, but Alexander Waverly and the whole UNCLE North American operation will be seriously and permanently compromised.'

There was a bang from a door behind his head and the three men who had been sitting on the table near them in the restaurant re-appeared into his field of vision. He could hear Dorothy engaging in another verbal tussle with Grollé before he felt his wrists and ankles freed and three pairs of very rough hands drag him to his feet.

'Watch him' Chesters said sharply as they manacled his hands behind him and forced him towards the door. Before he was dragged out, Grollé appeared in the doorway, Chesters holding Dorothy tightly behind him.

'_Au Revoir, Monsieur Kuryakin'_ he murmured, giving Illya an unpleasant smile. 'It was a rare pleasure meeting you in the flesh as it were, and of course THRUSH is grateful to you and Miss Costelloe for providing such excellent material for our little operation.' He came closer, but seeing Chester's expression, removed his hand from Illya's genitals. 'Oh, and Mr Kuryakin, in case you're thinking that your partner might be on his way to rescue you, I do believe that the Metropolitan Police are at this moment holding him for the murder of your old friend Hugh Manning, so, as they say in this country, 'Don't hold your breath, old chap.'


	5. Chapter 5

CHOICE Part Five

The restaurant was closed, an unnaturally dark gloom surrounding its curtained windows and shuttered doors. Napoleon rattled the door with barely concealed irritation, instantly aware of someone's presence as he turned back and scanned the coastline, clearly visible in the half-light of this shortest of nights.

'Psss. Here, Mr Solo!' A rather high, childish voice pierced the silence, a short, shadowy form beckoning him from the side of the restaurant. He relaxed his hand on his firearm and walked slowly to the edge of the building before glancing round.

Alan Costelloe stood there in the lee of the wall, what looked like a string shopping bag clutched in his hand. Napoleon could just see the glint of something metallic in the bag, something he knew well.

'Alan?, What the . . .' Alan stepped out into the light before half dragging Napoleon back into the shadow afforded by a very large horse chestnut tree conveniently placed opposite.

'Don't stand in the light!' he said knowingly, 'First rule of espionage, Mr Solo.' Napoleon tried not to raise his eyebrows at the command.

'Right. Now, would you mind explaining what you are doing here and what you have there?' he replied, leaning against the tree and wishing he could light a cigarette very soon. Alan pulled him closer and further into the shadow the great tree cast on the pathway.

'They came for me, you know, these _hoodlums_' he began rather excitedly, the use of such an American word sounding strange on his lips. Napoleon pursed his own lips and indicated that he was listening. 'They were stupid 'cause they started talking outside the hut and you can hear everything through those walls, like I heard what Mr Kuryakin was saying to my sister when they were smooching outside, he said . .'

'OK, we'll save that for later perhaps' Napoleon said quickly, not able this time to prevent his eyebrows rising. 'So what did they say, Alan?'

'Um, they were arguing about who should come in and get me' he replied eagerly. He stopped abruptly and began searching in the pockets of the trousers he was wearing over his pyjamas, the stripy nightwear poking out from the ends of his outer garments as he drew out a small notebook triumphantly.

Alan flicked open the notebook, his whole demeanour reminding Napoleon painfully of his interview with the policeman earlier in the day. 'Ah yes' he continued seriously, 'one of them said that their boss needed me to . . .' His lip trembled a little as he stared at the book, the junior spy suddenly appearing again as just a boy.

'It's okay' Napoleon said quickly, grasping his shoulder. 'I get the drift, Alan.' Alan recovered himself with astonishing speed, his finger following his notes until he had found something he seemed to think was important.

'Their boss, Mr Solo, his name was . . I couldn't quite catch it but it sounded like a town I saw on a map we looked at in school; it's near Liverpool.' He thought for a minute, his lips pursed together and a frown on his face resembling Kuryakin's thinking look, Napoleon thought. 'Yes!' Alan said at last, 'Chester! That was it.' The evening was warm and still but Napoleon's heart felt as if something frozen had just been inserted into it, rendering it as hard as stone.

'Chesters' he said, stopping himself from saying something he might regret in front of the boy.

'Mr Solo, I found these in the restaurant' Alan rushed on, breaking the tension. Napoleon knelt down and emptied the contents of the bag gently onto the ground. As he had thought, Kuryakin's communicator clunked gently down in front of him, followed by his watch, the ring he usually wore, the significance of which to date had not been explained, and a rather nice tie clip which Solo smirked at.

'Where did you get these from?' Napoleon asked, as he switched Kuryakin's homing signal on in the forlorn hope that somehow he had had time to plant the device somewhere.

'Inside there' Alan said, pointing to the restaurant. 'I hid behind the door when they burst in the hut and so I got out before they realised what was happening' he said proudly. 'Then I followed them here. It was easy. After a while they cleared off again, looking for me I suppose, so I went in and hid. I could hear them in the kitchen, Dottie and Mr Kuryakin and that Mr Chesters, the Yank, and then this other bloke who sounded foreign too but not like you, sort of like that French detective, Inspector Maigret, on TV but not nice like him.'

'Right' Napoleon said, shaking his head slightly at the thought of what the boy might have heard. 'Um Alan, without wanting to upset you too much, what exactly was going on in the kitchen?' Alan brightened, immediately referring to his notebook.

'Oh, I'm not upset' he said, looking serious, 'in the spy business you have to be prepared for difficulties like this Mr Solo.' Napoleon closed his eyes momentarily and then indicated for him to go on. 'It sounded like they had Mr Kuryakin down somewhere; his voice sounded a bit strange, like he was having difficulty speaking' Alan began. 'Anyway, the French bloke, he sounded nasty, he started saying nasty things to Mr Kuryakin.' He looked up into Napoleon's face, the boy returning again. 'Mr Kuryakin and you . . ., are you _real_ spies, Mr Solo?'

'Oh, what makes you think that?' Napoleon said, almost dreading the reply. Alan referred to his notes and then shut the book.

'That Chesters, the Yank' he started, sounding like his father for a moment, 'he went on about Mr Kuryakin and about you, Mr Solo' he said hesitantly. 'He said something about . . . yes, about being in some sort of a bird club with the French bloke and they'd done something to . . well they'd made it hard for you, Mr Solo, and then that meant some old geezer had got Mr Kuryakin to come from Russia to work with you, but . . .' he clutched at Napoleon's hand suddenly, his face suffused with anxiety.

Napoleon rubbed his eyes and chin. The past year, the failed partnerships leading to his pairing with Illya and the almost catastrophic beginning to their working life together now all seemed to come into context.

'What happened next, Alan? What did they say?' Napoleon asked gently. Alan gazed up at him again, his face stricken with whatever memory he had stored in the little notebook and which now he was replaying for the man in front of him.

'He . . he said that Mr Kuryakin and Dottie, they were going to . . . .' He stopped in mid-sentence, hurling himself against Napoleon, his smaller body shuddering against the American's chest. 'Oh don't let them die, Mr Solo, please!' he sobbed into Napoleon's jacket, I really like Mr Kuryakin and Dottie, well she's . .'

Napoleon held him for a moment, before finishing the sentence he had been unable to complete.

'I know. Best friends and sisters; they're important' he murmured.

He looked down at the little pile of Illya's belongings. It was the usual thing, a stripping of anything which could be of use to the agent or help in his release. He wondered where they had taken them and in what state. The sudden, insistent beep of Kuryakin's homing signal momentarily startled him. He stared down at the communicator, which he had put back on the ground with the other items. Somehow, against the odds it seemed, the signal had been activated. He picked up the cigarette case and stared at it, Alan's gaze riveted to the tiny, flashing light inside.

'Um, Mr Kuryakin seems to have been able to activate his homing signal' he said, smiling encouragingly to the boy. 'How, I don't know, seeing that it looks as if they took everything else.'

'There's some more of his clothes in the restaurant' Alan said, adopting his spy persona once more. Napoleon pocketed Illya's belongings, carefully secreting the ring and the tie pin inside his jacket, and then followed Alan round the back of the restaurant building to what was clearly the kitchen door. Stuffed into a clothes bin in a small storage room adjacent to the main preparation area they found Illya's suit, shirt and tie.

Napoleon picked up the jacket, a smart grey colour with a red lining, rather racy he thought for the normally sartorially phobic Russian. Holding it up, he crushed the material with his other hand, immediately feeling the sharp crackle of paper within. For some reason they had taken his suit from him and not bothered to search it. He drew out a letter, the Cyrillic script and absence of a postmark alerting him to the fact that this was personal and had not come through the post. He stuffed it into his jacket and signalled to Alan to follow him outside.

The homing signal continued to beep, giving Napoleon a clear indication of where it was coming from. He noticed Alan had assumed a similar pose to his own and was in turns staring at the tiny winking light and then looking out towards the beach.

'It's coming from that direction, Mr Solo, from the pier' he said excitedly. Napoleon drew out his own communicator and opened it.

'Listen Alan, I want you to do an important job for me and for Mr Kuryakin and Dorothy. You think you're up to it?' The boy's eyes widened and he set himself to listen, immediately drawing out his notebook and a small pencil. Napoleon sighed. If they ever survived this one, he couldn't imagine how he was going to write up the fact that he had been assisted in the rescue of his partner by a nine year old boy. He twisted the dial of his communicator.

'Open Channel D, overseas relay.' He waited for a few moments before the reassuringly familiar voice of Wanda pierced the silence. 'Wanda, I want you to patch me through to Pamela on Channel T and then when I've finished, I need to speak to Mr Waverly, OK?' He could see Alan taking notes by his side, nodding sagely as Waverly's name was mentioned. He crouched down until his head was at the same level as the boy's.

'Now listen carefully. I'm going to talk to a very nice lady called Pamela, and then I need to just check in with my boss.'

'The old geezer?' Alan said, momentarily stopping his notes.

'Right' Napoleon said. After that, we're going to find you a place to hide, out of the light of course, until Pamela comes for you, OK? Now this is important Alan. I want you to tell her everything you told me, you got that? She'll know what to do then.' Alan carefully put his notebook into his trouser pocket.

'I won't let you down' he said solemnly. 'Any of you.'

'Take off the shirt and then put these on nice and slow, Kuryakin.' Illya looked across at Grant Chesters, Dorothy pinioned to his side by a tight grip on her upper arm whilst his other hand pressed a gun to her temple.

One of the three monosyllabic guards pressed a shirt into his hands as he threw down his own buttonless one. It seemed unpleasant even to Illya's normally unfussy tastes, the material thin and rather stiff in contrast to the soft, cotton one he had just removed. Chesters looked at the new suit with a critical expression before glancing down at Illya's shoes.

'Did you check them?' he said brusquely to the tallest of the three men, who instantly picked them up.

'Yes boss. Look, they still have the label on' he muttered, thrusting the shoes in front of Chesters. Dorothy, forced to look too, could see that there were labels in both shoes, which was curious, considering that these were Illya's old shoes, the new ones presumably back in his chalet wardrobe. He stared at her suddenly, his look somehow empowering her to speak, despite the gun.

'Oh he's only had them hours' she said sadly; 'I choose them myself.' One of the guards made a crude joke about Kuryakin's taste in women and shoes, only to be silenced by an equally unpleasant look from Chesters. Dorothy had no idea why the shoes seemed to be so important but playing along with the man opposite felt like the right thing to do, so she snivelled slightly and then felt silent.

After putting on a rather cheap looking tie he thought his partner would rather jump in a river than wear, Illya took hold of the suit and slid the trousers up his legs. It was of a similar quality to the other clothes, the cut generous on his slim figure and the cloth coarse and crude in texture.

'I see you've spared no expense with my new wardrobe' he said acidly, the man beside him stopped from landing him a punch in the stomach by a single look from Chesters.

'Oh you deserve it, _comrade_' Chesters said sarcastically, mocking him with the word which he had noticed his partner start to use recently as a term of teasing endearment, or so he believed. Now it sounded like the crude insult he knew Chesters was fond of using about anyone he considered a threat.

Illya hoisted the trousers up a little and put on his shoes, tying the laces carefully with a single bow. As he straightened, he could feel several rather hard items secreted within the jacket, no doubt in the style he knew intelligence officers in his own country would favour.

Chesters returned his weapon to the holster inside his jacket and nodded to the man standing just behind him, who immediately jerked Illya's hands behind his back and manacled them together.

'Why are you so rough on him?' Dorothy said, as Chesters steered her towards the back door of the restaurant. 'He doesn't have any weapons; I don't see why . . '

'You don't see squat' Chesters replied in a kind of snarl. 'Mr Kuryakin here is not the sweet, blue-eyed little boy you think he is, Miss Costelloe' he continued, dragging her along the path, the three other THRUSH men making a kind of posse round the Russian as they pulled him along behind her.

They walked in silence for a short while, passing through the gates of the camp towards a large black car Dorothy usually associated with grand occasions like weddings or funerals. Chesters pulled open the door and got in, dragging her in behind him. Illya was propelled in next to her before one of the guards got into the seat by the driver whilst the other two men sat on small pull-down seats facing them, their faces unreadable and dull in the darkness of the car.

Dorothy could feel Illya's hard body wedged up against her, the steady rhythm of his breathing contrasting with her short ragged gasps.

'I'm sorry' he murmured into her ear, the scent of his skin drawing her nearer, locking her gaze into his as she turned her head. Immediately, she felt her face yanked away from his, Chesters' snarling expression now replacing Illya's gentle eyes in front of her.

'Oh I don't think he is, not really' he began. 'After all, if you had made the right choice, to join our organisation, it wouldn't have been us that were bringing your sorry little existence to an end now, would it Kuryakin? Just what method were you going to use this time, Illya? After all, you're so accomplished in, what do they call it?' He paused for a moment, enjoying the look on Dorothy's face. 'Ah yes, the '_silent methods'_ he hissed in her ear.

Chesters leaned back slightly, enjoying the moment, watching the confusion on Dorothy's face and the shadows gathering over the Russian's downward tilted head. Illya remained silent, the only indication of emotion a slight clenching of his jaw as he stared at his knees. Dorothy twisted her body away from him until she was looking fully into Grant Chesters' face.

'Alright. I'll work for you, as long as you let him go _now_' she said, acutely aware of the man behind her, his reaction to her choice signified by a long, slow sigh. Chesters sat forward suddenly and banged his hand on the back of the driver's seat.

'Stop the car.' Illya glanced out of the back window. The entrance to the pier was opposite, its rather faded art-deco entrance way sitting at the top of some rather grand steps which instantly conjured up images of a more elegant age. Two small gates either side of the entrance buildings looked firmly locked, but beyond them he could see, stretching away, the open deck of the pier leading out to sea and to the now shadowy buildings at the distant pier head.

'Dorothy' he said patiently, looking back into the car, 'for whatever reason you've changed your mind, you must understand that Mr Chesters here has no intention of honouring his side of the bargain.' There was an instant reaction from the guard sitting opposite, Illya's head jerked backwards by the force of the guard's slap. He felt the side of his jaw and narrowed his gaze at the man with difficulty as a trickle of blood ran down onto his shirt from his eye.

'For Christ's sake' Chesters murmured. He leaned back and opened the car door on his side, indicating to Illya with his hand.

'Off you go then, before I change my mind.' Illya turned, coming close to Dorothy as he got up. As he passed her she averted her gaze until the door slammed shut, the car purring into life again and then drawing away from the pavement. He was just able to see her expression change from a kind of dead resignation to abject horror as he felt a very powerful grip on his right and left arms and he was spun round, away from the car.

'Mr Kuryakin, we meet again and so soon. What a perfect night for a little boat trip; what do you say?'

The Aston Martin drew up, two short pips on the horn eliciting an excited reaction from Alan.

'The Bond car!' he shouted, giving Napoleon a sharp dig in the ribs. Napoleon frowned and stood up as the window nearest them was wound down.

'Thought you boys needed a lift' Pamela said through the window, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of Alan. 'They have them both in a black Armstrong Siddeley. I reckon they have about five to ten minutes on us.'

'I'll explain later' Napoleon murmured, pushing Alan into the back and slumping down beside her. He pulled out Illya's communicator from his jacket, slotting it into a little depression on the Aston Martin's dashboard.

'I took the liberty of organising a couple of Section Three bods to come up here before we left' she said as they accelerated along the coast road.

'Good, I have a feeling . . .

'Look, Mr Solo, there's Mr Kuryakin!' Pamela applied the brakes and they came to a near halt opposite the pier entrance, the car crawling past as Napoleon leaned over to gaze at the scene on the other side of the road. The moon, together with the pier lighting lit up the small amount of beach still visible at what was approaching high tide. A small boat with an outboard motor was bobbing in the shallows as two men were engaged in dragging the Russian onboard. Slightly further up the beach, with his back to the road, stood another man, watching.

Pamela glided to a halt just behind a rather ancient mini parked at a strange angle in front of them. The blip of the homing signal broke into the silence which had engulfed all three.

'Drive on' Napoleon said slowly, turning his face away from the sea and ignoring the more anguished looks of Pamela and the boy. 'Give me the Channel your guys are on and then hit the gas, right?' Pamela nodded.

'But Mr Solo, you can't leave him there with those men, they're the same ones who tried to cop me at the hut' Alan wailed, throwing himself round and staring out of the back window before turning back to Napoleon. Solo snapped his communicator shut.

'Alan, listen. Your sister is in the car with a very nasty man who we need to stop now. If Mr Kuryakin were here, he would expect me to choose this course. I promise you that as soon as Dorothy is safe, we will go back for Mr Kuryakin. Remember, that's what spies do, right?' Alan gulped a little and slumped back onto the seat.

'Right' he said in a low, small voice. Napoleon turned round again, trying to reassure him whilst wishing that he wasn't there. 'When we get your sister' he began again, fixing Alan with an expression that he hoped would reassure the boy, 'I want you to look after her while we go and fetch Mr Kuryakin.' He almost felt like laughing at his own words, as if Illya had gone for a trip and needed to be reminded to come home again. Suddenly the letter he had taken from Kuryakin's jacket came into his mind. He drew it out, looking again at the name on the envelope, noticing that the Russian was being addressed by his former naval rank. He frowned and then returned it unopened to his pocket.

After another few miles they had reached the outskirts of the town, the road going south and slightly inland, beginning to skirt the part of the North Sea called 'The Wash' as it headed down towards Boston. An immense, flat and darkened landscape opened up either side of them, the occasional farmhouse or small village the only sign of life as they flashed through. Despite the proximity of both towns there seemed nothing on the road except the Aston Martin and the hulking shape of the other car ahead. The car accelerated along a straight part of the empty road as Napoleon gave directions to the Section Three men, now heading north from Boston.

'Five minutes' he said quietly to Pamela, pulling out his weapon without drawing too much attention to it. The road started to dip slightly, affording them a clear view beyond the THRUSH car of another vehicle heading towards them in the distance. Winding down the window, Napoleon leaned out slightly and took aim.

The weight of the car in front enabled it to stay on the road after the tyre burst, but it was clear that the driver was having trouble keeping it steady at that speed. Tiny sparks flew into the night from the metal rim of the wheel now screeching along the tarmac on the near side as the car lurched dangerously over towards it. A hail of bullets from the side window screamed harmlessly over the Aston Martin's roof, the boy not having to be told to keep well down in the back of the car. Napoleon glanced across at Pamela and then gazed into the distance. As Pamela braked, they saw the car pulled across the road ahead. The Armstrong, already hampered by the blow out, braked suddenly, the car bucking and swerving like an ungainly metal steed, before slewing to a halt upended in a ditch at the side of the road.

The headlights of the UNCLE car lit up the Armstrong as Napoleon and the two Section Three men approached. It was obvious that the driver and anyone else riding in the front were trapped, but a door on the near side at the back was open. This was a scene he had played many times, the weighing up of the strategy to extract as many of the car's occupants as possible alive, whether innocent or guilty. As far as he could estimate there would be three or four guilty ones and one innocent here.

One of the Section Three men, a tall thick set type who looked as if he'd been a commando in another life, wrenched open the other side door, standing back as a lifeless THRUSH guard fell out into the ditch. Napoleon saw him look into the car and then fire, before standing motionless in front of the door.

From the other side another guard fell out, followed by a rather uncertain pair of woman's legs. Dorothy Costelloe's body followed slowly, her whole action seemingly in slow motion until, like a foal, she stood shakily holding onto the side of the car.

Napoleon ran forward and caught her before she collapsed, passing her over to the other Section Three agent. Bringing his gun forward, he peered into the rather cavernous interior of the car.

Chaotic silence reigned inside the rather plush interior. The guard nearest to him lay with his head back, sleeping off the effects of the dart, while the two men in front were obviously dead, their heads and torsos thrown forward violently in the crash. He could see the guard laying in the ditch through the open far door, while Grant Chesters lay slumped sideways, his head squashed into the side of the seat furthest from Solo. Napoleon stared at him for a few moments, until, after holstering his gun, he turned back to the group waiting outside the car.

'Contact the local police and tell them there's been an accident' he said, indicating the car behind him. 'They're going nowhere, so tell the police who you are and then get back to the pier as soon as you can. I've got the feeling that Illya might need us.' Looking round, he realised that Dorothy was now sitting in the back of Pamela's car with Alan, her head resting on the back of the seat and her eyes closed whilst her brother was no doubt firing innumerable questions of the spy variety at her. He ran back, thanking whatever God happened to be near for her survival and asking that the next part of the mission would also meet with similar luck.

Seeing him approach, the car roared into life and turned, the door opening for him to jump inside before it disappeared rapidly into the night.

The two Section Three men watched the Aston Martin's rapid progress with a certain amount of admiration before turning back resignedly to their rather less glamorous car. They had only just established their position with the police when two bullets neatly placed at the back of their heads ended the transmission prematurely. Grant Chesters leaned in and switched off the transmission, before dragging the bodies out of the car and, after disabling the communicator, setting off slowly down the road towards London.


	6. Chapter 6

CHOICE Part Six

There was something extreme about how little boats rocked, Illya thought, sitting between the two rather burly guards facing Raymond Grollé in the stern. He had never encountered problems on board any of the ships he had served on in the Navy, their ability to take the rough seas in their stride making it even verge on exciting at times. But in little boats every small wave seemed a crisis, rocking them violently to and fro and pitching their passengers inward towards each other or outward and even overboard. He decided that actually being in the water was far more preferable than being on it in one of these, but he had the appropriately sinking feeling that overboard was where he was headed before long whether he liked it or not.

Grollé was obviously not particularly fond of boats either it appeared, but from the way he ordered the other men about and fingered the lid of the large box beneath his feet, Illya drew the conclusion that he was not prepared to entrust the Russian's fate solely to the two men either side of him.

He had slid the little homing signal into Dorothy's fortunately well lacquered hair earlier in the evening, when they had spent some time in what proved to be an enjoyable clinch outside the Costelloes' chalet. A prescient feeling of something bad happening later that evening had prompted the act, something he hoped that in the end would be preferable to his ultimate instructions if all else failed. It now appeared that their embrace might be the last intimate thing they did together if Grollé was to have his way.

He was now convinced that Dorothy had gambled her freedom for his, inexperienced enough not to understand the ways of THRUSH in general and Grant Chesters in particular. It was no real surprise to him that Grollé was waiting conveniently by the pier, or that Napoleon, whom he had glimpsed in Pamela's Aston Martin as he was hauled onto the boat, had taken the correct decision to put the girl's life before his partner's. Through Illya's mind flashed memories of the short months they had shared together since he had sidled up to Solo at London Airport earlier that year. His final decision, whether to remain at UNCLE or to respond to the contents of the letter in the suit he had discarded now seemed secondary to the more pressing need to survive the next few minutes and hours. Despite all of it though, he still, however illogically, harboured the deep conviction that Solo would return.

Unusually, Grollé did not either seek to lecture Illya on his triumph or regale him with the details of how his death was to be accomplished; instead he merely stared at the legs and girders of the pier as the boat slowly passed by. Illya craned his head round, watching the coastline, lights twinkling from the houses of those few occupants who were still up beyond their bedtime. He could see the road bending round and away from the sea, and wondered if by now Napoleon had managed to catch up Chesters and at least save the mission from total disaster and more important, save the girl. His head sunk back down to contemplate his shoes again, until suddenly prodded to attention by one of the men sitting next to him.

'Stop the engine and moor her.' Illya looked up. They had reached the pier head, the great bulk of the theatre looming over them now in absolute darkness, entertainment having ceased for the night. He estimated that the pier itself was probably about one hundred and twenty metres long, the entrance way a distant and shadowy shape some way off. Obviously the plan was not to drop him far out in the depths of the North Sea, but, looking at the water now at high tide, it would be deep enough and cold enough to do him considerable and probably fatal damage just leaving him here.

'I expect you're wondering what is going to happen' Grollé said suddenly, not being able to resist at least some gloating at Illya's expense. Illya stared at the contents of the box, the lid now thrown to the side. There were no heavy weights as he thought there might be, only a number of ropes of different thicknesses, lengths and materials. Illya pursed his lips and looked at Grollé, assuming what he had heard Napoleon refer to as his 'little boy lost' look.

'Looks interesting' he said expectantly. Grollé sniffed, steadying himself as one of the guards anchored the boat to a leg of the pier jutting out towards them.

'What I'm interested in, Mr Kuryakin, is how long it will take you to die once we have you in place' he said, fingering the thickest of the ropes, a short densely woven piece made of a material Illya couldn't identify. 'In the morning of course, you will be found at low tide and in due course identified as an officer of the KGB masquerading as Waverly's innocent little Russian UNCLE agent.' He threw over a thinner piece of cord to one of the guards and then turned back to look at Kuryakin. 'You could call this a preventative measure' he said icily, 'that is, preventing what might turn out to be quite a successful partnership from blossoming, _n'est-ce pas_?'

Illya felt one of the guards lock his shoulders in a hold that he didn't even try to resist, turning him away from the other man while his hands were re-tied with the new cord. He was turned back to face Grollé, holding what now resembled a noose in his hands.

'A word of explanation' he began. 'I am sure the scientist in you is wondering about the nature of the material these cords are made of.'

'Enlighten me' Illya replied tersely, surprised that the cord round his wrists was relatively loose.

'You will find that once the cords come into contact with water, they begin to contract. Of course, in experiments we found that the temperature of the water did affect the speed of contraction, but I would guess that you probably have, . .' he shrugged his shoulders lightly and gave Illya an unpleasant leer, 'oh, about an hour to live I would say. I'm afraid that, unlike the method of execution in this country, your death will not be quick or painless, Mr Kuryakin.'

The water felt jarringly cold but Illya knew this would not be impossible to survive, in this depth at this time of year. There was a far more serious hurdle to overcome in the shape of the ligature round his neck holding him to the pier's structure and the increasingly painful cord round his hands. He watched the boat pull away for a few moments before giving his full attention to the cords. Keeping the noose out of the water was essential, even though it meant an increasingly painful stretch of his neck and shoulder muscles to do it. His saturated clothes were also contributing to the drag downwards. He steadied himself against the pier leg, gripping it with both of his own, more flexible legs. He had been surprised they had allowed his feet to remain free, but their oversight would only mean the difference between life and death if he was given enough time by the noose.

Giving his shoulders another hoist, he brought his left leg up behind him and, after a few failed attempts, managed to grip his shoe and pull it off. Brief moments of his military training came before his eyes; unpleasant scenarios created in fake boats rapidly filling with water as the men scrambled through the bulkheads to safety. Painfully, the cord now biting into his wrists, he pulled the shoelace off the shoe and felt it float down into the depths. There were so many distractions pulling him towards unconsciousness; he forced himself to forget the cold, the pain in his wrists, the slowly tightening noose, and just concentrate on the lace, winding it carefully round the ligature holding his hands together.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and pulled the hard end of the lace. Immediately an alarming and incongruously fierce burning sensation shot through his wrists, followed by the delicious sensation of his hands becoming free of their ties. He forced his arms forward and up above his head, dragging himself free of the water, and using his legs to give him some purchase on the pier's structure.

Despite all his efforts though, he could feel the inexorable tightening of the cord round his neck, the dampness of the environment being enough to affect it. The noose was attached above his head to one of the metal struts between the pier's legs, some kind of metal clamp making the connection between cord and crossbar. Steadying himself with one hand on the metal upright, he brought up his other knee and managed to grasp the other shoe and yank it off. Flexing his fingers he turned the heel round and pulled out a small strip resembling a piece of grey chewing gum. He closed his eyes momentarily, focusing on the task and trying to blank out any feelings of panic caused by the constriction on his throat or the numbing cold of the water. Ramming the shoe into the top of his trousers, he reached up and attached the explosive to the metal clamp, before, after another heaving breath, he relocated the shoe and grasped hold of the lace. Summoning all of his remaining strength and with a literally strangled piercing cry, he pulled the lace.

The blast was more than he expected. The clamp flew apart, the cross beam, with an ominous clang coming down and releasing the end of the rope. Illya, struck by the metal beam, felt himself at once being thrown immediately outwards and down into the dark waters beneath. Despite his frantic grasping of the noose, there was no mistaking that it was now rapidly and fatally cutting off his ability to breathe.

'I understand. Solo out.' Pamela looked across at Napoleon, Alan Costelloe behind him leaning forward slightly in order not to be left out of the news. Napoleon sighed deeply and looked back, noticing that unlike her brother, Dorothy had finally fallen asleep, her face showing signs of the fear, exhaustion and stress which she had endured and survived in the last hours.

'Not good news I'm afraid, although it sounds as if we have one less irritant to deal with at this moment in time' he murmured darkly. He looked round, realising that it was going to be difficult excluding Alan from the conversation, however undesirable that might be. 'That was McGuire. Apparently the police found Castle and Ponman at the scene of the accident and got in touch when they found their ID. It looks as if our former colleague wasn't as dead as I thought he was.'

'Oh God' Pamela muttered, the car moving forward rapidly as she spoke. The outskirts of the town flashed by, the long black line of the pier eventually coming into view.

'They're sending medical assistance' he said ominously, his eyes indicating their eventual journey's end, 'and the local police have a couple of plain clothes officers for back-up' he continued. 'Otherwise, it's just you and me, sister.'

A hard tap on his shoulder indicated otherwise.

'Mr Solo, I'm ready too' Alan interrupted in a stage whisper, notebook at the ready. Napoleon opened his mouth, to be stopped by Pamela's touch.

'That's very kind, Alan. You can help Mr Solo on with his equipment and then we can get things ready for when he gets back with Mr Kuryakin, can't we?' she said gently, ignoring Napoleon's expression.

'What equipment?'

They pulled up in a side street near the pier, the small houses conveniently darkened to mask their activity. Pamela and Napoleon got out, Alan quietly opening the back door and joining them in a cluster round the boot. Pamela swung the lid up, revealing its contents. Beside a very large blanket and other clothes lay a complete wet suit and various additional items including a very vicious looking knife.

'How the hell did you,. .' Pamela put her finger to her lips and handed him the suit.

'Girl Guides, dear. Remember? 'Be prepared'. Now, get that on pronto and we'll see what's going on over yonder. Alan can guard the car and Dorothy until we return, right, Alan?'

'Right!' Alan replied, jangling the keys he'd been given in his hand and then getting into the driver's seat of the car.

'Remember, keep the car locked at all times until we return, do you understand?' Pamela said, taking off her coat, her black jumper and trousers instantly rendering her almost invisible against the dark solidity of the houses behind her.

When Alan had disappeared into the car, she reached into the boot and drew out a holster with its UNCLE standard issue Walther PPK firearm, waiting until Napoleon was ready and had shoved his mask and breathing equipment into his backpack.

'You may not need all of that, but we don't know yet' she said as they crossed the road, hiding between cars conveniently parked in front of the pier entrance. They remained crouched down for a while, until after a sign from Napoleon, the two of them ran swiftly down what remained of the beach towards the shadowy safety of the first of the great pier's girders. It was a good vantage point to look out towards the sea and to observe the movement of anybody on the water. Napoleon reached into his backpack and retrieved a pair of field glasses, scanning the blackness in front of him.

At first there seemed nothing, just the sound and sight of the tide rushing up and drawing back from the beach. The endless predictability of it lulled him into a slight stupor for a few moments until a dark movement from under the pier head made him crane forward and adjust the glasses. He could see them becoming more clearly defined as they approached; three men, two quite obvious guards, and the other, smaller man quite obviously not Illya.

'He's not with them' he said rather hoarsely, giving Pamela the glasses and grabbing his backpack. Pamela gazed at the little boat for a minute then put the binoculars down.

'Well, what are you going to do?' For a moment he stared out at the sea and then turned to her.

'Let them go' he said slowly. 'Illya has to be our priority now and you can't take on three men. I've already lost too many people to all this and I don't want to add you to the list.' Pamela smiled.

'Go, get him back. We'll be waiting' she said, kissing him, before sinking back into the shadows of the pier structure as he sprinted up the beach and towards the pier entrance.

The lock on the gates was relatively easy to pick, Napoleon easing his way through and then picking up speed as he sprinted along the open planks of the pier towards what he prayed would be the place where his partner had been left. Running was something he was trained to do but didn't particularly enjoy, unlike the Russian, whom he had collided with one morning outside the back entrance of UNCLE. Kuryakin had still been living in the Section accommodation within the building at that time and had obviously been returning from a long run, judging from the sweat which plastered the clothes to his body and ran in profusion from his face. But through the exhaustion he had glimpsed an uncharacteristic joyousness in his new partner's demeanour, something he had stored in his mind to add to other observations he had made of the man who was now becoming an important, even precious part of Solo's life. Smiling, in spite of the situation, Napoleon increased his stride and forced himself on towards the dark mass at the end of the pier.

The unmistakeable sound of explosive and the resulting clang and grind of metal threw him to a juddering halt in front of the theatre, looming up in front of him as a silent, colossal witness to the sounds below the deck. Shining his torch down he could see what he imagined was a strut from one of the pier legs poking out seawards towards a gently seething mass of water in its trajectory. Without time for anything except his mask, Napoleon clambered up onto the delicate ironwork of the pier and dived into whatever awaited him below.

There seemed no reason why Kuryakin, a far superior swimmer to Napoleon, should be under the water until his partner's torch lit up his head. Underneath the swirling blond, sea anemone hair, Illya's face looked contorted, his eyes back in his head and his body drifting. The ligature, like some nightmarish pearl necklace shone in the torch's light against the darkened skin of his neck and face, only contributing to the sick feeling sweeping up and through Napoleon. Thrusting his arms under his partner's he pulled him upwards, bursting onto the surface of the water with an eerie crash which echoed on the metal structure above them.

He forced himself backwards towards the nearest leg of the pier, at the same time wrenching his knife from its seal on his arm. Illya remained ominously still. Napoleon was sure he was breathing albeit shallowly, but with the ligature still in place and so tight, it could only be minutes before even this fragile hold on life would cease. Leaving go of one of the Russian's arms, he attempted to hack down at the cord, his heart beginning to pound as the ligature appeared to resist any attempt on his part to cut it. Strangely, he could even feel it constricting his fingers as he attempted to squeeze them underneath. He shone the light in Illya's face, detecting a bluish tinge about his lips that made him close his eyes for a moment before he made one more final and hopeless attempt to sever the cord.

He wasn't aware of the dingy until it was almost upon him. Pamela's face was suddenly looking into his, other arms dragging him and Illya into the craft.

'He's dying, I . . I can't get it off' he managed to shout to no-one in particular. Illya lay on his back, the two police officers either side with Pamela now at his head. For a moment they stared at the nightmarish scene evolving in front of them before, with a gasp, Pamela leaned forward and took the Russian's hands.

'Look, he must have had the same round his wrists and he got free' she stuttered wildly, staring at the three men. 'How did he do that?' Napoleon leaned forward and then suddenly unzipped his wetsuit, ripping open a small packet and pulling out a thin strip. He could hear the Russian's voice in his head, telling him about the explosive he had developed, almost the first thing he had done in the laboratory since he had arrived in New York.

'Don't mistake it for gum, you might have a rather volcanic reaction in your mouth' he had said sardonically. Now his experiment could, if Napoleon misjudged it, be responsible for injuries which might turn out to be worse than Kuryakin's present fate if the cord was not removed from his neck.

'Turn him over, quick' he shouted, 'hurry!' He leant forward and wrapped a tiny strip of the explosive round the cord at the side of Kuryakin's neck, forcing his fingers underneath the ligature. Pamela immediately grabbed a piece of cloth stowed by her side, and dipping it in the sea water, covered Illya's head above the cord. She smiled grimly, and gripped Napoleon's arm as he turned the dial of his watch.

'Don't want his hair to catch fire' she whispered, 'we'd never hear the last of it.' In spite of himself he smiled, and then pulled the dial of the watch sharply. A sound resembling a very small firework going off, followed by a minute but brilliant flare jerked them into action, one of the police officers throwing a small bucket of water over the Russian's head eliciting a hissing noise and the smell of scorched hair and flesh.

'Oh God' Pamela murmured again, before yanking open a box and pulling out a large bandage. When the smoke cleared Napoleon found himself on his knees, a heavy, white cord in his hands. Covering his face he remained there for what felt like some time, before, wiping what he afterwards claimed was smoke from his eyes, he sat up and contemplated the now calm, black sea.

He was lying on his side when Napoleon arrived, his hands and wrists lying heavily bandaged above the bed's coverings whilst a substantial dressing was held in place by further bandaging on his neck. The bandage brought back instantly the memory of the cord and not for the first time Napoleon reflected on the irony of having to use Kuryakin's explosive invention on the Russian himself. He looked down at his still partner, observing with a wry smile that someone had performed a neat job with clippers up the back of Illya's neck, Pamela's makeshift covering not being quite enough to save the prizewinning thatch of blond entirely.

Pamela appeared silently in the doorway, bearing a tray in her hands containing two rather solid looking cups of tea and a plate with three fat slabs of fruit cake, as well as a plastic container resembling a child's drinking cup. She glanced at the recumbent figure on the bed before smiling and whispering in his ear, 'tea up.'

'About time.' There was a slight quivering of eyelashes before Illya's eyes opened fully and he turned his head a little, a twinge in his facial features telling Napoleon that the burns were still raw and painful.

After working out the intricacies of the hospital bed, they managed to hoist him upwards between them, Pamela playing the dutiful nurse and feeding Illya whilst, between mouthfuls, they conducted a kind of informal debrief of the mission between them.

'So, both Grollé and Chesters got away' Illya said, lying back on the pillow.

'Yes, but against that we have Miss Costello back safe and sound, and at least we now know whose side Chesters is on' Napoleon countered, putting his cup down. 'Don't worry about Chesters, I will deal with him, _eventually_' he murmured. Illya opened his eyes and reached out towards his partner's arm.

'No, Napoleon. _We_ will deal with him eventually' he said quietly. 'This whole thing is to do with our partnership, and so we, as partners, will bring it to a conclusion.' Napoleon nodded, aware that Pamela had got up and was moving towards the door.

'You talk boys, I'm going to fetch two people very anxious to see our patient' she said, blowing a kiss to Illya and giving Napoleon a more knowing look before disappearing out of the door.

They sat in silence for a while, Napoleon growing to appreciate his partner's need for silent introspection. After some time, when Kuryakin looked as if he had almost fallen asleep, his eyes opened again and he looked over at Napoleon.

'In the restaurant, er, did you find anything of mine? Napoleon picked up a small attaché case by his chair and flipped open the locks, placing the case on Illya's knees and spinning it round to face him. His communicator and the other items were there, the ring now in a small box which he fingered with difficulty before glancing at the other things.

'The letter is there too' Napoleon added quietly. Illya looked up, knowing from his partner's face that it had not been read, and that Solo would not ask for explanations about any of the items laying in the case. He stood up and pulled the letter out of a side compartment in the case, pushing it towards Illya.

'This letter is from Admiral Gutskov of the Soviet Navy' Illya began with no preamble. 'Apparently he had been informed that all was not going well for me in the United States.'

'Oh.' Napoleon fought back his own more selfish feelings about the import of the letter and waited. After months of close study he was beginning to detect the signs of anguish so often hidden in the Russian's bland expression, but whatever the letter contained, it was the decision of the other man which mattered and that Napoleon would accept, whatever the outcome.

'He has offered me a commission, at a higher rank of course' Illya continued, looking away from Napoleon. It would be a diplomatic position, in Czechoslovakia I understand. He tells me that there is trouble brewing there which our government needs to investigate and deal with. There would be no . . . consequences if I returned home, but if I decide to do so, then, well, there would be no second chance to come back to UNCLE, if you understand.' He looked at the letter and then, uncharacteristically chuckled. 'He says that I could settle down, look for a good Russian wife and have lots of babies.'

He pushed the letter away and gazed intently at Napoleon. 'I would very much like a wife and family one day but not yet, perhaps not for a long time, Napoleon.'

Napoleon stared a little, and then began to smile broadly.

'Right, yeah. I think that's a . . . wise choice, comrade, about the family that is.'

Illya smiled and attempted to hoist himself a little up the bed.

'Now, when I am let out of this place I understand that we have a week's holiday owing to us.' Napoleon frowned, wondering what was coming next.

'Um, yeah, the holiday. I was um, planning to spend it with . .'

'Lady Pamela? I thought so. Well that is fortuitous Napoleon, because there won't be room for you on our holiday, I'm afraid.' Napoleon's brow wrinkled slightly. He had got the impression that the Russian's relationship with the girl had not progressed that far, but even he could be wrong about women, at least occasionally.

'Alan tells me that he has found out through his contacts in the camp that I have been awarded a week's free holiday for winning the other competition I entered' Illya said mysteriously.

'And that was?'

'It was called 'One in a Million' Illya replied. 'Actually it was a fix, but I worked out how they were cheating, so in return for agreeing to keep quiet, they gave me the holiday.' The haircut and his irrepressible smile were both contributing to give Napoleon the impression of a triumphant ten year old sitting in front of him.

'Lucky you. So, if you don't mind me asking, who will you be sharing with, on this holiday of a lifetime?' Illya blinked, an astonished look on his face.

'Alan of course. We have a lot of catching up to do if he's going to pass the Eleven Plus examination next year and get into the Grammar school he's so keen on. Oh, and Dorothy is sharing with her mother. Unfortunately, her father will have to return home, so won't be able to join us.'

'Mm. Unfortunate. Well, don't neglect the young lady in your efforts to educate her brother. She seems to have worked miracles already, by the look of you.' He had only managed to get to the door before the empty plastic container hit him squarely on the back of the head, bouncing away to be caught expertly by Alan.

'Second rule of espionage, Mr Kuryakin', he said grinning, 'always show respect to a senior agent.' Illya groaned.

'Well he is a _lot_ older than me, that's true.'

As Napoleon and Pamela skilfully drew Alan out of the room. Dorothy drew up a chair and leaned across the bed.

'Third rule of espionage, Mr Kuryakin' she breathed, as he drew closer. 'Always submit to a higher power.'

'Willingly' he murmured.


End file.
